By Ed Sikov
All the housemates – Craig, Sal, Sean and Sal’s friend Colton – arrived at the same time, having ended up on the same ferry, as I was putting together the makings of le cocktail du weekend: the Sidecar. One bottle of brandy and one of Cointreau were lined up along with a mid-century pitcher I’d picked up at a flea market for a song (the rights for which were evidently owned by the Beatles, given how much I’d paid for the damn thing). In my hand was a red plastic reamer, and I was reaming lemons.
Craig was the first to comment. “You told me you hated rimming!”
“Here it starts,” I said under my breath. “And it’s not going to stop for a very long time.”
“He told me once in confidence – um, well, forget that part; it’s only our housemates, dear one, and they won’t tell a soul! (They were all shaking their heads no – violently – and grinning.) “The one sex act he refuses to perform on anyone is rimming. Poor Dan has never been rimmed.”
Dan was in the living room reading “The Economist” but evidently following the conversation closely because he immediately exclaimed, “I have, too! Just not by him. He wouldn’t do it if our marriage depended on it, which come to think of it, it just might. I’m unfulfilled.”
“Stop braying, Martha,” I said, hoping to change the subject.
“I don’t bray, George.” he responded.
“Flores para los muertos! Flores!” I said softly, seeing myself as one of los muertos in question.
“He’s just too much of a priss,” Dan continued, utterly oblivious to my humiliation. “I’d have to soak my ass in Clorox for a week before he’d even consider it, and even then I’d have to cover the whole thing in Saran wrap.”
“I knew it!” Sean shouted triumphantly. “Mr. Ed is exactly the type of overly fastidious and basically selfish gay guy who won’t put his Listerined mouth anywhere near anybody’s bunghole, thereby denying his innumerable partners one of the greatest physical pleasures the human body can produce. I told you so! I’ve said it a million times.” To whom, I wondered? BBC World News? NPR’s “All Things Considered?” Was Terry truly Gross?
With the imaginary taste of ass on my tongue, I spat, “Now that we’ve played Humiliate the Host, and before we are forced to move on to Get the Guests, does anybody want to know what drink I’m making?” In unison they all cried, “No!” They drank them anyway. One by one they told in excruciating detail about the first time they were rimmed; the first time they rimmed another guy; the best rim job they ever had; the smoothest ass they ever rimmed; the hairiest; and on and on. Sean told a story so foul that I will not repeat it here, other than to say that I wanted to throw up at the end.
Sidecars are not only delicious but easy to make (if, unlike me, you use bottled lemon juice instead of – I’m sorry – reaming fresh lemons through a strainer and into a measuring cup). But I must say that the endless discussion of sticking your tongue in somebody’s anus and the equally endless references to my aversion to the practice completely destroyed any desire I had to prepare dinner for these awful, awful people, my so-called friends and – oh good Lord – my husband. So when Craig emerged from his rectal reverie and asked, “Hey, why aren’t you cooking anything?” I stood up and announced, “Not my problem. Hey, I know! Go to the meat market and buy a rump roast and lick it till it’s done!” I stomped off and, as my housemates and husband looked on in shock, I slammed the door behind me as I left the house and took myself out for dinner. I got myself hammered, picked up a muscular stud on the boardwalk, took him to the deserted beach and let him do what he wanted to me. Take a wild guess what it was.
The Sidecar (makes one drink)
1.5 oz. brandy
.75 oz. Cointreau
.75 oz. fresh lemon juice
Pour all ingredients into a shaker filled with ice and shake hard; strain into a chilled cocktail glass and think about worthier body parts that you enjoy playing with. And don’t invite your friends.